I glance at the screen that shows the adjoining bedroom in time to see Pietro coming through the door, wheeling a silver trolley with a tray of food on top.
“Putain.”
That guy’s got the worst timing.
Greta’s got a towel wrapped around her tightly now. She waits in the bathroom with one hand pressed to the door, the skittish rabbit again ready for flight. I wonder if she thinks it’s me on the other side of the door, if she would come out if I went down there now.
But that’s not how I like to do things. I’m a man who watches. I’ve not had a woman touch me for years. Touch is not a sensation that I enjoy. But watching and watchingthiswoman . . . I could do that for fucking days.
Pietro leaves the tray on the trolley near the table in the room and leaves.
Greta waits, frozen like a startled deer. Then she pushes open the bathroom door and peers out. She scans the room, all cautious until she’s sure that no one’s there.
Still wrapped in her towel, she goes straight for the tray of food. Picking up the sandwich, she takes big bites, chewing quickly as though showing me just how hungry she is.
Anger flares in my veins. Who is this woman? And why was she lost in the woods, tired and hungry in the rain? Doesn't she have a man looking after her?
A spike of jealousy pierces my chest at the thought. If she does have a man, then he doesn’t deserve her.
She’s mine now.
She eats the entire sandwich while standing by the tray and then starts in on the bowl of Galatine’s, an Italian candy that I had sent up to her. She pops one in her mouth, and her eyes close as the sweetness hits her tastebuds.
She washes it down with the bottle of San Pellegrino on the tray. I made sure to leave the top on so she knows it hasn’t been tampered with. But I could have slipped something in her sandwich. This girl’s innocence will get her into trouble one day.
I chuckle to myself.It already has.
Her wet clothes have been discarded in the bathroom, and I’ll have them laundered tomorrow. I’ve left a negligee out for her on the bed.
She crosses the room to the bed, and her fingers run over the plush cover. Her eyes go to the canopy above and the luscious curtains of the four poster bed.
I smile to myself and lean forward, a spider watching its prey.
She turns around to face the bed and finds the negligee I had laid out for her. It’s white and lacy, and my mouth goes dry in anticipation of seeing her in it.
Her back’s to the camera as she drops the towel. Her perfect round buttocks are like golden globes, and I take my aching dick in my hand as I watch her dress.
I purposely didn’t leave her underwear, so she slides the negligee over her body and the delicate silk shimmers as it falls over her skin and clings to her curves. Her hands run over her body, smoothing down the fabric.
Her breasts are perfection framed by the white lace. The negligee bunches under her breasts and falls free over her body, stopping mid-thigh. She bites her lower lip as she looks down at it. The fine Italian lace looks good on her. More than good. She looks like an Italian princess.
Her fingers play with the hem and my pulse skitters, willing her to touch herself, to finish what we started earlier.
Her mouth opens in a silent yawn.
It’s been a big day for this one, a big night. Greta crawls onto the bed, and before she can get under the covers, her body collapses. She spreads out on top of the sheets.
I don’t know if she meant to get under the covers or not, but as soon as her head touches the pillow, she’s asleep.
I’ll come down and tuck her in later.
I watch her chest rise and fall, the movement becoming regular as she falls into a deep sleep.
She’s spent. She’s done. But I’m not.
I switch to the camera directly above the bed and watch her breasts rise and fall.
As she laid down the negligee hem flipped up, revealing the innermost part of her thigh. Her pussy is tantalizingly close but still covered by the thin fabric.
